(C) Daily Kos This story was originally published by Daily Kos and is unaltered. . . . . . . . . . . On Grief: A Lesson from Teleflora on Maternal Forgiveness and Personal Resurrection [1] ['This Content Is Not Subject To Review Daily Kos Staff Prior To Publication.'] Date: 2024-05-12 I woke up this morning, the TV watching me instead of the other way around. A Teleflora commercial flashed on the screen with the theme, “Before she was 'Mom,' she was 'Her.'” That statement halted me in my tracks. Who is 'her'? There are faint remnants of who 'her' used to be before she became a wife, a mother... a defender of the universe. It plunged me into the catacombs of my mind. How can I resurrect 'Her'? She was lost so long ago. 'Her' washed away in the condensation of the sky, scattered remnants on the four corners of the Earth. 'She' and 'Her' became synonymous with loss and depression. 'Her' got other people through school, helped other people advance professionally. 'Her' has a giving spirit and a Teflon response to rejection. 'Her' is a warrior. 'Her' takes no shit from anyone. At least, that’s what I wish 'Her' to become. How can 'Her' be translated? Let’s see: Samuel L. Jackson and Leslie Jones would be my anger translators. Leslie Jones to come up with something off the wall, and Samuel L. there to add a stern “Motherfucker” at the end while Lizzo provided the vocals of my soundtrack. I’d live in a world with no depression, anxiety, or suicide. I’d create drum circles that started every half hour so that when anyone felt overwhelmed, they could enter the drum circle and feel supported and loved. I’d make cannabis over the counter, as accessible as Sudafed, caffeine, and alcohol. I’d make any and all reproductive health options free of charge. Why should men be able to get Viagra through their insurance companies, but women can’t resolve a man’s inclination to SCREW EVERYTHING IN SIGHT with an appointment, some rest days, and some therapy? The patriarchy would be dissolved, and I’d move all of the people who had an issue with that to the rectangular states, fence them off, and literally turn them into the Pay-Per-View watchfest that George Carlin described in his stand-up. “Talk about some FUN SHIT!!!” I’d rename the territory “Gilead” and then open up the Indian reservations and let the indigenous people claim the houses that are left vacant by these morons. I’d be the exacter of generational justice. My name would be “Her Royal Highness, the Breaker of Chains and the Mother of Dragons, Who Moved All of the People Whose Momma’s a Ho Into Exile.” I hate almost everything about my body. My midsection puts off a vibe of being perpetually pregnant. When I gain weight, it’s not in my ass or hips or calves: it’s center mass. I’ve tried everything to no avail, eventually settling for having gastric bypass surgery. It was a good decision – I lost over 100 pounds... but I still felt like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. I have skinny yet toned calves, and my skin’s elasticity is weakening, giving me MC Hammer pants-sized cellulite. My ass was inverted until I started having babies – now I’ve got a micro-ass that gives me permission to go into American Eagle and find all of the flat-assed white girl jeans I can find. I have no idea how I’ll ever gain any elasticity in my arms, so I choose to cover them with tattoos in a proverbial “fuck it” posture. I have saddle marks under my eyes that depict the tiredness in my spirit. I don’t feel pretty. I’ve never felt pretty. I am followed by the fat jokes and bullying of my childhood, where people programmed computers to moo at me at school. As much as I want to let go of the strings, the moment I do, they ebb and fold across my legs and leave me hanging upside down, in a batcave of tangled angst. It’s a hard way to live. What can I love about my body? I have amazing legs from my hips to the floor. I have boobs – well, maybe a small lift could do them good – that still sit up in my bra. When I get my nails done, I have nice hands. More than anything, I have stop-and-stare eyes – grey with a tinge of green and blue. I was 16 and out on Hale Street with some friends. I had on sunglasses, and we were talking to a group of guys. We were making small talk, and I took off my sunglasses. “Don’t you EVER wear sunglasses again,” he said. It made me feel unique – the prized eye trophy at the Kentucky Derby. But even in that remark, I could still find the negative. What I love about my body is also something that others can’t see. I love the scars I have from when I delivered my three children. I love the strength of my skull from when my daughter pitched a pot at my head that connected with my eyesocket and when my mother hit me across the face with a frying pan. I love the strength of who I am despite the abuse. Despite the hurt and anguish and discomfort. The balance I still have left in my feet after several toe amputations. I love the easiness of my spirit when I break out into pure laughter. I love my ability to forgive constructively – meaning I’ve already said “Fuck You,” but it’s no longer draining to my spirit. The intelligence in my brain, the steadiness in my walk. The kindness in my heart and the discernment in my spirit. So maybe there are some things that I love about my body... I read a meme that said, 'Signs of a High Vibration Person,' and I hit every one of them. A high vibration person 'radiates positive energy and lives in a state of love, joy, peace, and gratitude.' Check. They are 'often described as being in tune with their emotions and having a strong connection to their inner guidance.' Check. They 'possess a deep sense of self-awareness and live their lives with purpose and intention.' Check. They are 'often perceived as being vibrant, charismatic, and magnetic, and open-hearted.' Check. They 'typically experience a sense of inner peace and calmness, showing resilience against stress and negativity.' Check. They 'have a positive impact on the people around them and are able to uplift and inspire others effortlessly.' That’s something to love about my body, right? I have a very strained relationship with my mother’s side of the family. I grew up as the 'cousin' who tagged along, consistently reminded that my presence was an obligation, not an invitation. Being an only child, my only connection to familial bonds rested in this household. Raised as an only child, as my mother was. This led to a lonely existence, never having to share, which manifested in me as an adult oversharer. I was encapsulated in the notion of 'be quiet and don’t express your feelings or how any 'family business' is affecting me'—the shelter that being in a black family tries to shame you into. I dealt with colorist cousins who shamelessly made comments like 'You’re not black' and 'light-skinned,' aimed at making me feel inferior. Even after delivering my oldest, my grandmother and cousins made light-skinned comments about my baby—'Look at that yellow baby?' 'Well, what the FUCK do you expect—for her to be deep purple?' I was always the fat kid—even after having babies. I could go on and on, but why? What are the things that I wish for? I’d want to do over my regrets. I’d want to take a quantum leap to the day that my mother married my stepfather and tell her not to do it. You don’t need a fourth marriage. You’ll never be alone as long as I’m here. I’ll never let you be lonely. I’d want to articulate the words that never got a chance to be said to each other. The things I didn’t understand until I became an adult, a wife, a mother. I wouldn’t wrestle with forgiving the man she sold me out for. My mother would have never developed cancer and never met the stepfather who abused me by hitting me square across my back with pieces of fenceposts. It wouldn’t bother me that when I go to the cemetery to see her, I have to see him. That’s the reason why I don’t go as much. The lipstick print on the marble of her crypt is still there, after over 25 years of death. That’s how I know she still loves me—her spirit won’t allow it to wash away—and that is one of the only things that lets me know she’s still there and she still sees me. My grandparents wouldn’t have had to take on my pain because we’d have a family where there was a reduction of torment and misplaced judgment. That’s what I’d want. I want to cast away my hangups and bandage up my inadequacies. I want to taste and feel freedom. I want to bend and fold and stretch to heal all of my disasters and catastrophes. I’d let my grandparents know that they did their best to try to heal a broken person, and I’d apologize profusely for the anguish I put them through. It wasn’t their fault—they were receiving the short end of the stick from someone who was constantly ostracized and had no control over their surroundings. Again, this isn’t a funny entry by any set of standards, but it absolutely could be. My nonprofit would be off the ground and successful—I would be able to see the lights shine in the eyes of young women and girls as they navigate their entrance into the #metoo movement. We’d talk and build and cry together as we defined our new normal. They’d—oh, excuse me—WE would refuse to assimilate into tacit silence, and on the lawn of my big house, we would stage a sit-in and force the uber-rich to acknowledge us. I’d set up a tiny house camp for the homeless—just to give them somewhere to land before they have the ability to fly into their purposes. I’d dismantle and eliminate food deserts and give the children in my city something to do in their restless moments. If money wasn’t an option, I’d do everything on this page and then some. I’d make celebrity rapists pay for what they’ve done to women with means, because if they’d do this to them, what would they do to anyone else? Yeah, this is a dream, a dream deferred. Let me be surrounded in the love that my grandmother said is supposed to come from God that I haven’t felt yet. I want to be blinded by faith and the miracle of being universally accepted. She said that is what God is supposed to feel like, but all I see is divisiveness and anger. God is not supposed to feel like that, she said. But I don’t know her God. I don’t know her God. Where my belief in God is steadfast, her God, with his fire and brimstone arrogance, isn’t the God I believe in. I believe in a God of practicality. I believe in the God that I find when I’m sitting in the unrhythmic chapels of churches that separate gospel music from church trauma. I believe in the God of miracles. I believe in a God that can tell me I messed up but give me the guidance to fix it. I believe in a God of second chances—no, I believe in a God of 234,144,216.1 chances. A God that gives me a cushion where I can absorb the difference between blessings, curses, and the resolution of lessons that I haven’t realized yet. A God who is present with the sun and the moon, the stars and the planets. The energy of the earth coupled with the awe of the divine. The God of my childhood isn’t him. That God threw paper at me when I just wanted a conversation. That God picked me last at everything, exiled me from the cool kids. He treated me like I was stupid and disposable. He forced the invitation. He told me that it was unrealistic to want peace by killing my mother the moment I asked for it. He moved my grandfather into the room that my mother died in. He chastised me by family members: 'I don’t know how many times you went to see your grandfather while he was in the hospital.' Maybe it was because I lost two of the most important people in my life within a year of each other. 'I’m a better mother than you.' No, you’re just a sanctimonious b#$ch who had infinite amounts of help. I want to believe in a God who asks me why. A God who cradles me when I’ve made mistakes, puts me on the right path, and loves me through my errors. The God I want to believe in is filled with philanthropic grace, extending open-handed blessings in micro-breaths. I refuse to accept a God of confusion, void of love like the one of my childhood. But no one remembers that God. That picked last God. That God of chastisement. That God whose place in my life made me want to hurt myself more times than it should have. Because there is no confessional with this God, no 'Bless me father, for I have sinned.' Because that God gives no absolution. I keep running into the 'I don’t care if you’re suffering' God. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Exhale. Exhale. As I sat there, engulfed in the chaotic whirlwind of my thoughts, a gentle breeze of realization brushed against my soul. It whispered to me softly, urging me to embrace the fragments of 'Her' that still lingered within the depths of my being. In that moment, I understood that resurrecting 'Her' wasn't about erasing the scars or rewriting the past—it was about reclaiming the essence of resilience and strength that had always resided within me. It was about being able to say 'I forgive you'—to them and myself. I forgive you for what you’ve done to me, but I’m cool with being that person 'you don’t fuck with.' Your loss, not mine. Don’t arbitrarily speak to me in public when you ignore me in private. I’m okay. You know where I live and my phone number. With each passing breath, I made a solemn vow to honor 'Her,' to stand tall in the face of adversity and proudly bear the scars that told stories of survival and triumph. I embraced the imperfections of my body as badges of courage, reminders of battles fought and won. And in the mirror, I saw not flaws, but testaments to the resilience of the human spirit. As the Teleflora commercial faded into the background, replaced by the steady hum of the world around me, I felt a newfound sense of empowerment coursing through my veins. Where there will probably be no flowers for Mother’s Day, there will be seeds of discovery. No longer shackled by the expectations of others or haunted by the ghosts of my past, I embarked on a journey of self-love and acceptance. In the drum circles of my imagination, I found solace and camaraderie, surrounded by kindred souls who understood the power of collective healing. And in the depths of my nonprofit, I discovered purpose—a beacon of hope for those navigating the turbulent waters of their own #metoo moments. With each step forward, I left behind the echoes of doubt and self-loathing, embracing instead the boundless possibilities that lay ahead. And though the road may be long and fraught with obstacles, I knew that I was not alone. For within me burned the indomitable spirit of 'Her'—a warrior, a survivor, a force to be reckoned with. And as I gazed into the mirror once more, I smiled—not at the reflection staring back at me, but at the woman I was becoming. For in her, I saw the embodiment of strength, resilience, and unwavering courage. She was not just 'Her'—she was me, and together, we were unstoppable. 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